The Path of Flames (Chronicles of the Black Gate Book 1)

by Phil Tucker

  Hands pushed Tharok forward. He blinked, rolled his shoulders, and began to methodically stretch out his muscles. He worked quickly through a series of movements he had never practiced before, obeying impulses alien to him but logical, so that in short order he had stretched out all the great muscles of his legs, hips, core and shoulders. Olok and Urok stared at him in confusion. Kragh warriors never stretched. They warmed their muscles in battle. Tharok ignored them. He was too sore and stiff to allow fury to warm his body.

  With Krol missing, Wrok didn’t dare nominate a champion. In this battle only his clan members, direct blood relatives, would agree without hesitation to represent him, but Urok and Orok were young, untested. Tharok watched him carefully, unsure of how the pressure might force him to act.

  By the firelight the chieftain examined the crowd, and for a long while he stared at his twin younger brothers, both of whom bristled with eagerness to be nominated to battle. Then Wrok turned and stared at the weapons master. It had been Tharok’s own father who had cut his arm from his shoulder, leaving the weapons master permanently crippled, if still lethal with the blade. The chieftain gazed into the weapons master’s eyes, trying desperately to guess whether the enmity Barok felt for the father would be sufficient to pass to the son. With a deep growl, he turned away and sliced at the air with World Breaker.

  “Let’s end this farce! I’ve meat and drink to attend to and willing women to mate with! The time for blood has come!” And with those words he charged across the open space, not giving anybody time to arm Tharok or prevent him from using World Breaker in the duel.

  Time slowed. Maur and the shaman both were moving forward, mouths opening to roar their protests. The great fire danced and crackled and spat like an imprisoned demon, a conflagration that lit everything in shades of hell. A sea of faces surrounded them, light green ranging to black with maws opened in excitement, eyes glinting reflections back at him. Wrok was wielding World Breaker, and its power would sustain him, give him strength and vitality far beyond what his old body could normally muster. Tharok was unarmed, brutalized and exhausted.

  He smiled.

  A hand pressed between his shoulder blades in the beginning of a shove. Tharok fell to one knee and reached back to grasp Orok’s wrist and haul him forward. Orok overbalanced and fell into a roll, surprised by the sudden lack of resistance, and sprawled out on his back before the charging Wrok. Tharok, down on one knee, reached forward, neatly drew Orok’s blade and rose even as Wrok leaped over his fallen brother and brought World Breaker swinging down at his head.

  With a cry, Tharok stepped to the side, raising his blade not in a direct block, which would have shattered his sword, but in an oblique deflection so that sparks ran out down the length of his sword as World Breaker slid off it. Wrok’s momentum carried him past and into the arms of his brother, Urok, who steadied him and turned him around.

  Tharok glanced at his blade. The brush with World Breaker had warped it, dulling the edge completely along one side. Orok was rising to his feet, so Tharok retreated until he was standing with his back to the great fire, the heat raging and licking at his bare skin, the light bright in Wrok’s eyes as he approached with greater caution. Maur was calling forth an objection, but it was too late. The males knew that the battle had been joined and that the rules and conditions could no longer be changed.

  Tharok’s mind spun. He was too injured, too exhausted and in too much pain to summon his battle rage. No matter. Doing so would only dull his mind and exchange intelligence and strategy for sheer force that would throw him right onto World Breaker’s point. He forced his anger down and watched as Wrok approached, confident now, enjoying the power and strength that World Breaker afforded him, such power as he had not felt since his youth. It would make him arrogant, would make him eager to demonstrate his newfound prowess. That was Tharok’s only advantage, and he allowed himself to look panicked, gazing from side to side as if seeking escape.

  “There’s nowhere to run, slave,” roared Wrok, grinning mightily as he enjoyed the sight. “Bitten off more than you can chew? You should have thought twice before defying me!” He stepped forward and brought World Breaker down in an overhead slash. Tharok deflected it once more, purposefully taking more of the brunt of the blow so that his own blade was nearly knocked from his hand.

  Again Wrok brought World Breaker down, eschewing a skilled assault for all-out brutality, and again, and then once more, Tharok deflected the blow, each time allowing his blade to be distorted and bent even further, so that by the fifth block not only were his right shoulder and arm on fire and his head swimming, but his sword was nearly useless, gashed and notched and nearly shattered at the hilt.

  Wrok, sensing his primacy, continued to hew down as if striking at a block of wood. Tharok dropped to one knee, holding his blade directly overhead now so as to take the next strike full on, no deflection. It was clear that World Breaker would smash through and bury itself deep in his head. Wrok grasped World Breaker with both hands, and with a roar that did his old lungs proud swung World Breaker as high as he could and brought it shattering down.

  But Tharok was no longer there. At the last moment he dropped his sword and threw himself at the chieftain’s legs, diving forward even as the old kragh stepped in to him, taking a boot in the ribs but tripping the chieftain as his weight was thrown into his forward chop. Wrok let out a cry of fury as he stumbled over Tharok and into the great bonfire.

  Head ringing, Tharok reached up to make sure the circlet was still affixed to his brow and then forced himself to stand. He picked up his mangled sword. Wrok was screeching, desperately pushing himself off the conflagration of logs, his clothing burning, his skin blistering, his iron-grey braid smoking. With a cry the old kragh heaved himself out of the fire, World Breaker still in his hands, and turned to face Tharok, eyes maddened by pain and panic. But he still stood, sustained by the sword’s powers, heaving for deep breaths through his scorched lungs.

  Tharok stood unsteadily, mangled blade at the ready, and knew that now was his only chance. With a roar of his own he staggered forward, desperately trying not to trip, and brought his ruined sword down upon Wrok in the same manner the chieftain had attacked him, hammering down like a smith at his anvil, only now allowing his anger to slip free of his control and his rage to shine forth.

  “Die!” roared Tharok, staring at Wrok’s blistered, terrified face. “Die and burn, die and burn!”

  This kragh had helped kill his father, had destroyed his tribe, had tried to enslave him, was allying with the Tragon, and had almost gotten away with it. Fury fueled his blows, and he pressed the chieftain with more force of will than actual power, for World Breaker was sending chunks of metal flying from his blade even as he warded off the blows. Wrok stood, his heels to the fire, trying to regain his balance, trying to move himself forward, to seize the initiative, but before he could do so, Tharok brought his blade down one more time as hard as he could, perfectly aligning World Breaker’s edge with his own so that the great sword cut through his mangled one cleanly. The tip of his mangled blade flew down into Wrok’s face. The chunk of metal cut deep into his left eye, ruined his cheek, and without pause Tharok stepped back and brought the remnants of his sword sweeping crosswise through Wrok’s still upheld wrists, severing both of the warlord’s scrawny hands from his bird-boned arms.

  Wrok’s screams were lost in the roar of the crowd as black blood fountained from his stumps. Tharok stepped back, heaving for breath, and cast his ruined sword aside. Wrok, savagely burned, partially blinded and without hands, turned his one good eye upon him. Tharok growled deep in his chest and stepped forward to power a forward kick from his hips into the warlord’s chest, snapping bones and sending the old kragh flying into the fire, dislodging heavy logs as he fell into the orange and crimson heart of the blaze, his scream rising to a shrill cry before suddenly cutting short.

  Without pausing, on the verge of passing out, knowing that every second was critical, Thar
ok reached down and took up World Breaker. Strength flooded into him, he steadied, and then lifted his head as if a great weight had slipped from his shoulders. He spun and raised World Breaker so that it was between him and Orok and Urok, who had already been rushing forward, naked steel in their hands.

  “You would dispute my victory?” Tharok took a step forward. Ah, the joy of strength, of pain receding, of newfound energy! He felt fevered, but the energy was hollow. He would sleep for days if he so much as sat down.

  Orok and Urok snarled and then cast quick glances at the crowd, at Maur, at Golden Crow, at where Barok was standing. No one supported them, so they lowered their blades reluctantly.

  “No, Tharok,” said Urok, the elder of the two. “We were moving to retrieve our brother before he burned completely and lost his soul. You misunderstood our intention.”

  “Did I now,” said Tharok, staring Urok in the eyes until the other looked away. He then locked his gaze on Orok until the other kragh did the same. Only then did he turn to the assembled clans who had all risen to their feet, faces intent as they stared at him.

  “I am Tharok, son of Grakor, the last of my clan and tribe, but here, with World Breaker in my hands, with Ogri’s blood in my veins and his blessing on my head and sword arm, I stand before you as the Red River’s new warlord. I have proven myself in trial by combat, and I say to you now, if you follow me, I will lead you to glory, to victory heaped upon victory, so that the name of the Red River will be forever linked to the greatest deeds and riches. If you follow me, you will join me in creating new legends. We shall forge a new kragh empire! We shall rise in power and leave behind us a trail of broken bodies, defeated enemies, burned cities and ruined lands!”

  Many of the kragh around him gave voice to their pleasure, stamping their broad feet and pounding their fists on their chests, shaking their heads from side to side and snapping their jaws open and closed. A third of them, however, did not. Those were the kragh most closely allied with Wrok’s clan, two or three clans that had formed the core of the Red River under Wrok and supported his rule. Tharok’s father’s cruel leadership of the Gray Smoke tribe was fresh in their memories, and they were clearly loath to crown his son over them so soon.

  Maur stepped forward, several other crimson-haired kragh of the women’s circle behind her, and the clans stilled. She stood before Tharok and studied him, her broad cheekbones and flat eyes reflecting the fiery light. With a great fur wrapped around her shoulders and neck but little more than a loincloth below, she looked savage and beautiful, yet contemplative as she assessed him. Tonight was the night for mating, thought Tharok. Maur would be feeling the instinct as much as any other.

  Finally, she turned to the crowd. “The women’s circle finds in Tharok a worthy warlord for the Red River tribe. We support his claim, proven by blood, and by the sword he now holds in his hand.”

  Tharok resisted letting out a sigh of relief. Had Maur ruled against him, his followers would have easily been cut in half, leaving him wide open to a number of challenges. But with her and the women’s circle behind him, his claim had become vastly more solid.

  The shaman, Golden Crow, hobbled before Tharok and stared up at him. It was a disconcerting sight, looking into the shaman’s withered and dry eye sockets, and the ancient kragh, older even than Wrok had been, pulled out a chunk of shaman stone and worked it between his fingers as he whispered incantations. When he deemed the moment right, he popped the shaman stone into his mouth and chewed on it while everyone waited in silence.

  “Ogri has clearly blessed this warrior,” he said, his tone grave and surprisingly deep for his wiry figure as he used his avalanche voice. “Whispers come to me from those who saw Tharok climb the Dragon’s Breath. He speaks true! Ogri himself blesses his rise. He would not allow Tharok to stand with World Breaker in his hands were he telling anything but the truth.” His words rung in the air, and the very nature of the silence changed in texture. “The spirits have blessed him, and through him the Red River tribe. They have sent forth one of Ogri’s blood to lead and unite us. Tharok is the chieftain of the Red River.”

  The silence continued for several heartbeats more, and then, as one, the kragh began to roar and stamp their feet, the words of the wise woman and the shaman cementing what the trial by combat had already told them. Tharok lifted his arms, World Breaker gleaming in the firelight, and turned slowly so as to stare all the kragh in the face. It was clear that some were cheering with more gusto than others, that some were forcing themselves to participate, despite the overwhelming vote of confidence given to him.

  Tharok lowered World Breaker. Only the vitality of the sword was keeping him on his feet now. But he needed to do one thing more.

  “Kragh of the Red River, I am your chieftain. My clan is scattered, my father is dead, but I stand before you ready to rule, to lead you to greatness. My first act will be one of blood. Bring me Orok and Urok.”

  Several large kragh men stepped forward and gripped the twin brothers, who had already begun to fade back into the ranks, looking to make their escape. They strove to cast off the grips that held them tight, but were brought stumbling and cursing before Tharok. He looked into their faces, already darkening with their growing authority, tusks lengthening, younger images of Krol.

  “Blood of Wrok, you are of his clan and share his spirit amongst you. Your fortune was tied to his. Your power came from his rule. You gave him strength, supported his plans, and benefited from his victories.”

  Orok and Urok stood very still and tensed.

  Tharok lifted his blade. “This sword is called World Breaker, for with it Ogri broke the world. He did not cut off the tops of mountains or cut between the peaks to form deeper valleys, as is said, but with this very sword he broke the world of kragh and men. He shattered tradition, he broke rules, he remade the kragh into one grand tribe that ranged from horizon to horizon. It was called World Breaker, for before its blade the old world could not stand.”

  Orok let out a cry and threw himself backward, trying to rip free, but the three kragh who had hold of him held fast. They drew him back, and then one kicked out his feet from under him so that he fell to his knees. Urok had enough dignity to lower himself, though he never took his eyes from Tharok.

  “Wrok’s death should free you, and by tradition your clan should be allowed to leave the Red River and join whichever tribe you desire. But you killed my clan. You betrayed us to lowlanders. You helped Wrok destroy my tribe. Because of you, the Gray Smoke are no more. So with World Breaker in my hand, I say tradition ends here. Tonight.”

  Tharok took up World Breaker, and with one sweep took off Urok’s head, severing it so cleanly that he went on kneeling for several seconds before finally toppling over and crashing to the ground.

  Orok stilled and shook his head. “You can’t do this.”

  Tharok didn’t respond. Instead, he firmed his grip and backhanded the blade across Orok’s throat, taking his head off as well.

  The gathered clans stood still, eyes locked on him and the dead twins at his feet. He stared at the six kragh who had held them only moments ago. “When Krol returns, I want him taken and brought to me. Do not explain why. Simply do this. You six are to watch for him. I know your faces, I know your clans, and I hold you responsible. Is that clear?”

  The six kragh looked at each other, brows raised, and then as one they nodded and stepped back into the crowd.

  Tharok knew he wouldn’t last much longer, but he had to look strong until the end. He turned to regard the crowd. “I wield World Breaker. Mark me. We shall break worlds together. I will shatter traditions and end how things have been done. The only thing I hold sacred is uniting our tribes. All who oppose me will die.”

  He came to a stop in front of Golden Crow and lowered himself to one knee before the old kragh, who reached out and placed his hand on Tharok’s shoulder. “I ask that your insight and knowledge of the spirits be put to great use in the service of the Red River tribe. Will y
ou serve me, Golden Crow-krya, even as I respect you and do you honor?”

  The old shaman nodded. “I will, warlord.”

  Tharok stood with difficulty. He turned to Maur and the women who stood with her. “I recognize the women’s circle, and would meet with them tomorrow. No action may be taken without their counsel, no move made without their guidance. Would you meet with me tomorrow, all of you, so that we may discuss the future of the Red River tribe?”

  Maur grimaced, but there was wry amusement in her eyes; his actions thus far undercut his words, but it had been nicely said, so she nodded her consent.

  Finally Tharok turned to regard them all. “Continue the celebration, for tonight marks the birth of a new era amongst the kragh. Drink, dance, laugh and fight. Find your mates, rut hard and long, so that the women may bear us strong warriors for tomorrow’s wars! The Red River tribe shall rise above them all!”

  Heraised World Breaker over his head, causing it to gleam and burn, and the clans let loose a cacophony of shrill cries and roars. That was all he could manage. He lowered the sword and strode away, needing darkness, a place to collapse.

  Someone ran alongside him: Toad.

  “Find me a hut,” he said thickly to the little kragh. “Find me a place to sleep.”

  “Wrok’s hut is currently empty,” said Toad, grinning and hopping. “Follow me. It’s not far.”

  Tharok locked his eyes on the small kragh’s back and stumbled after him, passing tents, leaving the fire behind, till he reached the largest hut, smothered in the whitest goat pelts and with two braziers burning before it. Toad stepped forward to speak to a kragh of Wrok’s clan who was standing before the entrance even as Tharok blundered past the hanging goat skin and into the darkness of the hut’s interior.

  He paused, spotted the great bed, and without word, without thought, strode over to it and collapsed face-first, World Breaker still clutched in his had, asleep before his face even hit the pillows.